


Public Diplomacy

by FrancescaMonterone



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe, Asexual Character, Asexuality, Blogging, Diplomacy, F/F, F/M, Humor, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-17
Updated: 2017-04-18
Packaged: 2018-04-26 19:52:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 14,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5018155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrancescaMonterone/pseuds/FrancescaMonterone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I mortally offended the Minister of Finance today. Way to go, Matthew! I haven't been in the country for two months yet and I'm already on the verge of being declared persona non grata."<br/>-<br/>Matthew's new job might end up driving him crazy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Scheduling Disaster

I mortally offended the Minister of Finance today. Way to go, Matthew! I haven't been in the country for two months yet and I'm already on the verge of being declared _persona non grata_. To the Ruritanian government: there is no need to give me the customary 48 hours; I haven't even unpacked most of my boxes yet. Eight will be fine.

Apparently, letting the Ministry of Finance know that your Ambassador can't make it to the meeting they suggested, because he is seeing their former deputy minister (former as in 'we fired his lazy, traitorous ass') at the same time does not promote good relations. It's a bit like having an illicit affair: you don't mention it.  
And I know this, because I have already been reprimanded by three people.

My mistake has been detected, selected, picked apart, analyzed and filed away under the heading 'stupid things the new guy did, shame on him'. Gilbert told me (in serious tones that were very much out of character with his usual demeanor) that it had been very _unfortunate_.

Note: diplomats don't use adjectives like regular people do. While normal people use them as descriptors, to make whatever thing they are talking about easily recognizable, diplomats use adjectives to obscure and to mask things. Suddenly _nice_ isn't nice anymore. _Impressive_ means anything but. And that _'interesting proposal'_ you had...? Better not mention that again. Ever.

So when Gilbert said _unfortunate_ , I knew he really meant _'that was a fucking idiotic thing you did and it better not happen again or else...'_. And he made sure I got the meaning by staring at me moodily for a good fifteen seconds before turning on his heel and leaving to his adjacent office.

I quietly winced. What a truly wonderful way to start the week. Also: Gilbert is a pompous ass. But then, in a way they all are.

My next visitor of the day was Lilli, and the only good thing to say about her visit was that she brought chocolate chip cookies. Well, that and she smelled nice. Lilli always does. She treads very lightly, and so usually arrives quietly. Often, you'll catch a whiff of her flowery perfume before hearing her enter the room. Today was no exception.

She entered, preceded by a rose scented cloud, gently lowered the plate of cookies onto my desk and drily stated: "Well. I guess we won't be meeting the Minister of Finance tomorrow, will we?"

I rolled my eyes at her. "Don't even start, I already had it from Gilbert."

"Rules of engagement, Mattie. Never let the bigheads know that you believe somebody else is more important than they are." She paused, eyes narrowing. "Wait. You had what exactly from Gilbert?"

"The _'I'm seriously unimpressed by your performance so far'_ lecture. Geez, what did you think?!" It was a mostly rhetorical question. I knew exactly what she had thought.

"So not interested, Lilli."

"I sure hope so," she stated firmly, pushing the plates of cookies towards me. "Here. Have a cookie. You're going to need it, the boss is on his way in and he's not particularly amused."

Sigh. "Is he ever?"

Lilli shrugged. "Who knows. He might actually have a sense of humor somewhere. The fact that we haven't found it yet proves nothing."

"If he does, he's hiding it very well."

She turned to leave, on her way out almost collided with H.E. Ludwig Beilschmidt, Ambassador of Germany to the Unified Republic of Ruritania a.k.a _the boss_.

He's tall, blond, blue eyed and if he smiled every now and again, you could possibly consider him attractive. He doesn't. Still, it is hard to ignore him. Maybe it is his sheer physical presence, his height and the astonishing width of his shoulders and chest, or maybe it's the aura of grave formality that surrounds him. In any case, when Ludwig Beilschmidt walks into a room, heads turn.

In the six weeks I have been working with him (for him, to be more precise), we have developed a sort of morning ritual. For some inexplicable reason, he enters his office by walking straight through mine, even though he has his own private door further down the corridor. He stops in front of my desk, looks down at me, wishes me a good morning, waits to hear my 'good morning' in return, turns and enters his own office. I get up, head to the kitchen and brew his coffee. Strong, a little milk, no sugar. He never asks for it, never did, but it wasn't necessary.

I read the copious amount of notes my predecessor left me.

When I brought him the coffee today, he looked up from the screen. "Ask Mathek's office if we can reschedule the two o'clock meeting to two thirty; since we aren't going to the Ministry of Finance, we might as well spend a bit more time at lunch." His voice betrayed no emotion.

"Okay. Anything else?"

"Next time, don't give a reason when you postpone a meeting." His eyes were already on the screen again.

"I'm sorry."

No reaction.

I left. Maybe a bit more rapidly than necessary, since I almost stumbled over the carpet.

 

* * *

 

 

At eleven, I walked across the courtyard to the Ambassador's residence, a stack of snow-white placement cards in hand.

The table in the downstairs dining room was already set for twelve people.

There's a smaller, more private dining room upstairs, but it only seats eight. To me it was a mystery, though, how the Ambassador was planning on conducting a 'working lunch' with twelve people, particularly if one of them was the loud, exuberant and extremely chatty French Ambassador, my personal favorite (not really) among the local diplomatic community.

I spaced the cards evenly around the table.

Usually, you seat the guests according to rank, and there are strict rules governing who sits where. In this case, however, self-preservation dictated that you did not seat Ambassador Francis Bonnefoy anywhere near his British colleague, unless of course you wanted the lunch to escalate to a full out food fight.

So in order to give the guests a chance to actually enjoy the meal and maybe, just maybe get some work done, I put Francis between his best buddy Gilbert, and Beatrice, the head of the local EU delegation. For good measure, I made sure to add the head of the Swiss liaison office (neutrality, right?), the hulking Swedish Ambassador and a thoroughly harmless lady from the IMF as a living, breathing barrier between the two opponents.

I had just set down the last card - Matthias Kohler, the Danish Ambassador - when Feliciano Beilschmidt, né Vargas, bustled in, carrying an armful of flowers. He struggled with the door, and I rushed closer to hold it open for him.

Feliciano flashed me a brilliant smile. "Hi, Mattie. Grazie."

Feliciano is one of my favorite people in the world. Seriously. I have only known him for six weeks, but I am convinced I would already have quit my job, run amok or gone crazy if it wasn't for him.

Feliciano's official role - it even says so on his diplomatic passport - is _Husband of Ambassador Ludwig Beilschmidt_.  
His unofficial role is far more complicated than that - he is the gentle breath of life that keeps the Embassy from turning into a dusty mausoleum of files and official parlance.

"What are the flowers for?" I asked. I recognized white roses, lisianthus and carnations, the rest were unfamiliar.

"Arthur and Maria had a baby," Feliciano replied, beaming. "Isn't that lovely? It's a little girl."

Only Feliciano would congratulate the British Ambassador with an armful of flowers at an official lunch meeting.

I smiled. "Very nice."

"We are going to see her on Thursday," Feliciano announced and I was struck with the image of Ludwig cooing over a tiny little baby - no, just wrong. He would probably treat it as an official appointment, a duty to get done.

"I'm sure _you_ 'll enjoy that." Maybe I put a little too much emphasis on the word 'you', because Feliciano looked up and grinned at me.

"Ludwig actually likes kids," he assured me, "he's just bad at showing it."

Feliciano frequently assures me that his husband doesn't dislike humanity in general, even when he gives every impression of doing so. He is loyal to a fault.

"Come," Feliciano said, after putting the flowers in a vase. "I need you to try the pasta sauce. Last time I made it, it was a tad too spicy and I can't afford to have Gilbert asphyxiating at lunch, even if he might deserve it."

"Charming," I said, grinning, "does your brother-in-law know how much you care for him?"

Feliciano shook his head. "He's not my brother-in-law. There's no blood relation between him and Ludwig."

"No, they've merely been joined at the hip since attending the same fancy boarding school as boys, and your in-laws are Gilbert's godparents, or something."

"Actually, Gilbert's father is Ludwig's godfather," Feliciano corrected me. "Ugh. Don't make it sound any worse than it already is. It's bad enough I get to spend Christmas with Gilbert every year for the rest of my life."

We had arrived in the kitchen - which is more spacious than my entire apartment - and he lifted the lid of a large pot. A heavenly smell wafted towards me. My mouth instantly watered.

"I don't think I even need to try this, it smells delicious."

"Of course you do," Feliciano disagreed, offering me a spoon.

What can I say...? It was the best goddamn tomato sauce I had ever tasted.

"Will you marry me?"

He laughed. "Too late. I do believe Ludwig would object, and I am Catholic. The church frowns upon bigamy."

 _And homosexual marriage_ , I thought, but I kept it to myself. Feliciano is probably getting enough grief from his family because of that. Speaking of which... "When is Lovino coming back?"

"He's already on his way in. His plane was a bit late, so I expect him to be grumpy, but I'll just shove a plate of pasta at him, that usually helps. And he can't complain with his mouth full."

"That's ingenious."

"Well, I did grow up with him." Feliciano stirred the sauce and added another sprinkle of dried herbs.

Lovino Vargas is Feliciano's brother, the elder brother, to be precise. He is also one of the most bad tempered people I know. _Grumpy_ is his default mode.

"What's for dessert?"

"Tiramisu."

"How in the world does your husband maintain his weight?"

"It's a gift, probably. And he does get a lot of exercise." Feliciano turned the gas down. "You should eat lunch with me later."

"Are you not eating with them?"

"Oh, no, that would be awkward. None of the guests is bringing his or her spouse, and they are probably going to discuss politics anyway, so I'd get bored pretty soon. I'll drop in to give Arthur the flowers and congratulate him, but that's about it." He looked around quickly and lowered his voice, adding: "And I really _cannot_ abide Francis. Don't tell anyone, but the way he keeps looking at me? It gives me the creeps."

"Join the club," I muttered. "He's... _unpleasant_."

Feliciano snorted. "Or, for us mere mortals, translated from diplo-speak: he's a creep. He has wandering eyes and wondering hands, and I do not care how handsome he thinks he is, somebody needs to teach him some manners."

"Tell your brother," I suggested. "Lovino would enjoy that."

"Oh, I couldn't possibly...!" Feliciano exclaimed. "He's one of Ludwig's peers. And he isn't actually that bad. There are worse people around."

Sad, but true.

"By the way, there's a new Spanish Ambassador."

"I know," I said. "Can you try and get me his card? I tried to get contact details out of their secretary, but she isn't responding to my e-mail."

"Sure," Feliciano promised. "I hear he's quite young for the job. His first assignment as ambassador. He probably has friends in the right places."

"That, or somebody really wanted to get rid of him," I said. "Come on, Ruritania? You're either here, because you've made a deal and been promised a reward if you do a stint in this godforsaken place, or because somebody really doesn't like you."

Feliciano made no reply, which in turn made me wonder (and not for the first time) why Ludwig was here. I assumed it was a deliberate career choice, some sort of quid pro quo deal, but maybe it wasn't? I can't quite imagine Ludwig pissing anyone off badly enough to be sent away, but who knows....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not how the foreign service works. 
> 
> Okay, well, sometimes it is. 
> 
> I've spent the better part of the last five years as a foreign service officer, and some of the stuff that happens to Matthew in this story actually happened to me. I won't tell you which parts are pure fiction and which are inspired by true events, I'll leave that up to your imagination. 
> 
> Ruritania, obviously, is not a real place. It's a fictional country my teachers liked to use whenever they were trying to explain concepts of foreign policy without offending anybody (which is an easy thing to do, diplomats have a very good ear for potential slights to their home country). But Ruritania could be anywhere.


	2. Personal Favors

There are things in life to crazy for you to comprehend; and you won't believe they are even real until you write them down and look at them. That is, in fact, the reason I decided to start blogging. Seeing the craziness of my daily life spelled out in front of me makes me feel better.

Today, we had a visit from Roderich.

Roderich - Roderich Edelstein, to mention his full name - is the Austrian Ambassador to Ruritania, and as such something of an outsider. Most smaller nations don't even bother to keep an Embassy here, they serve Ruritania from the comfortable distance of one of the neighboring capitals, arguing that their interests here are not vital enough to afford a fully staffed mission. They are mostly right.

Ruritania _is_ right in the middle of nowhere.

However, there are a fair number of Ruritanian expats living in Austria, and they occasionally cause problems, which is why Austria decided it was worth the trouble and money to send an ambassador and to staff a small Embassy. The official argument is "maintaining peaceful and productive relations". The unofficial is _'making sure that no more Ruritanians decide to emigrate to Austria, or, if they do decide, making sure they don't get very far'_.

Since Germany has a similar problem, the German and Austrian ambassador usually have something to talk about. (It also helps that they speak the same language)

Roderich missed yesterday's lunch meeting (deliberately, if you ask me, he tends to avoid any social function once Gilbert has confirmed his attendance), so he came by today to share his impressions from his latest trip to the Northern Provinces.

He brought cake, which was great, and I got to sit in on the meeting, taking notes. Most of it was pretty boring stuff, but Roderich seems dead-set on getting a meeting with the President in order to nudge him towards a more firm policy on border protection. Not because Roderich is in any way interested in keeping the Ruritanian borders safe. He does, however, have a keen interest in keeping the Ruritanians _inside_ those borders.

"I know that you have some stakes in that, too," he said. "Since you are funding that training program for the border police forces."

Ludwig (God forbid I ever call him that to his face, but it's kind of hard not to when everybody else does) hummed his assent. "And we will continue to fund it. It's an important project."

"I think we really need to push for the Border Protection Act to be presented to parliament, though."

"That's not very likely to happen while Ms. Hérderváry is running the President's Office," Ludwig stated drily. "Her priorities lie elsewhere."

"Education and Women's rights." Roderich wrinkled his nose. "Yes."

"And she holds a personal grudge against you."

"No, really?" Roderich asked sarcastically. "I hadn't noticed that."

"It is a bit unfortunate that she chose to come here of all places. There is plenty of nation building to be done elsewhere."

"That's not as fun as doing it in your exes backyard, though, is it?"

A word on Erzsébet Hérderváry: she is Roderich's ex-wife. She is also the single-most determined person I have ever met. Not a good combination. Especially given the fact that the end of their marriage was rather abrupt and unpleasant and probably involved a lot of shouting.

Roderich Edelstein and Erzsébet Hérderváry were the perfect couple up until the point when they weren't anymore. They are attractive, smart, rich and ambitious. She holds two PhDs and he can make people cry by playing the piano (cry in the good way, mind you). According to Feliciano, who knew them both when they were still together, they would host elaborate parties at their stylish Vienna home and dance late into the night at every ball. There's a picture of her, somewhere, wearing a perfect replica of the splendid white dress and _Edelweiß_ -stars of Empress Elisabeth of Austria, and according to Feliciano, Roderich jokingly called her _Sisi_.

All of that is history now, though.

There are two theories about the sudden end of their marriage. One - by far the more lurid of the two - is that Roderich got a little too friendly with a Viennese callgirl/his secretary/an ex-lover (it depends on whom you ask) and Erzsébet caught them _in flagrante delicto._

The second, and in my opinion far more likely theory is that Roderich asked her to give up her career for the sake of his own and she did not take kindly to the suggestion that she stay at home and raise a couple of kids while organizing charity events.

Whatever the reason, though, they did not part on the best of terms, and there certainly is reason to suspect that Erzsébet may be doing what she can to sabotage Roderich's work. Considering that she has somehow managed to land a post as special advisor to the Ruritanian president, she can do _a lot_.

Poor Roderich. I do feel a bit bad for him.

 

* * *

 

 

The reason I am telling you so much about Erzsébet is that she also paid us a visit today. It was a private visit, since she came to see Feliciano rather than Ludwig, but she usually has an agenda, even if it's not always an obvious one.

She brought her children, so it got very loud very soon. Zlatan and Esma are twins, seven years old, inseparable and quite a handful. Or rather, two.

Usually, something shatters whenever they spend any more than ten minutes at the Residence.

Feliciano loves them, though, and he would probably let them finger paint the walls with his Prussian blue, if they wanted to. I guess we are all lucky that their artistic talent is leaning more towards the musical; they both dance, Zlatan plays the violin and Esma has an absolutely lovely voice. And I know this, because Feliciano has told me so. Several times, in a voice filled with rapt adoration.

Feliciano loves children.

I had been sent to the Residence, ostensibly to deliver some paperwork to Erzsébet that Ludwig wants her to look at, but I knew I was really there to keep an eye on the children and make sure the _Meißen_ service survived their visit.

They were in the studio, Feliciano showing Erzsébet his latest works, a couple of portraits he is quite pleased with. I could hear the children outside in the garden.

Good. Less things for them to break out there.

Erzsébet looked up at my entrance. Her long brown hair fell in soft, glossy curls to her shoulders. They weren't natural, but they looked good on her. She wore a tight anthracite colored dress that showed off her slim figure, and heels that would have made fine murder weapons.

"Matthew." Smile, open arms, coming towards me.

Oh, she's _good._

"Lovely to see you again."

"Likewise," I offered. Truth be told, she makes me nervous. There's something feral, something predatory beneath that polished surface.

I handed her the papers I had brought. "The Ambassador sends his regards. He would like you to have a look at those."

"Oh sure."And, turning to Feliciano: "How _is_ Ludwig, Feli?"

Feliciano shrugged. "Good. Busy. The two usually go together."

She laughed a little at that. "All work, no play, huh? That's Ludwig for you. Tell him he needs to have another cocktail party soon. To keep his husband entertained, if nothing else."

"There are plenty of ways to keep me entertained, and I assure you, Ludwig knows them all," Feliciano countered lightly, and it took me a moment to decode _that_ statement. Mostly, because it was unexpected.  I know Feliciano and Ludwig are married, presumably love each other (well, Feli does, one can never tell what Ludwig is feeling, if anything at all), and most likely have sex on a regular basis. But - you don't bring that up in conversation, do you?

Well. Maybe married people do.

"Good," Erzsébet purred, apparently utterly unperturbed by the topic. "I still need you to get Ludwig to host that cocktail party, though."

"Ah." Feliciano smiled knowingly. "Are we scheming again?"

_Now we're getting somewhere_ , I though. As I said, she usually has an agenda.

"Maybe," Erzsébet said. "It's nothing nefarious, though. I need an excuse to talk to the Russian Ambassador in an informal setting. The President wants me to relay a message and I can't very well do so in public given the current state of affairs between Ruritania and Russia. I can't request a meeting with the Russian Ambassador under these circumstances, but if I were to accidentally meet him at an unrelated event...?"

"I have an even better idea," Feliciano said. "Let me talk to Maria. She mentioned that Peter was quite upset, since his birthday is next week and they can't have a birthday party outside because there's construction work over at the British Ambassador's Residence and they had to temporarily relocate to an apartment. Let me arrange for Peter to have his birthday party in _our_  garden. You bring your children, and I'll make sure Ivan and Ekaterina bring Natalya. It doesn't get any more informal than that."

 "That's perfect!" Erzsébet exclaimed and leant in to kiss Feliciano's cheek. He blushed slightly.

Meanwhile, I thought about Ludwig's reaction when some poor, deplorable person (i.e. _me_ ) would have to tell him that his husband was planning on hosting a birthday party for the British Ambassador's son with dozens of children in attendance.

Oh, it was going to be _fun._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Zlatan and Esma stand for Bosnia and Herzegovina. Since this country was a part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire for a while, I thought it fitting to have it represented by twins who are Austria's and Hungary's children.


	3. Moral Qualms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matthew struggles with a request

Sometimes, I hate my job.

I was scanning the Ambassador's inbox this morning, weeding through the usual mix of reports from Berlin, Brussels and other German Embassies in neighboring countries, media reports, personal requests, invitations... when I came across an e-mail with the ominous title " _A request"_ , I was about to delete it unseen, but of course, we're not supposed to do that. It's the official line of the Foreign Office that every letter and every e-mail will be answered.

Even if it might take us half a year, even if the reply may only be a standardized, if very polite "we cannot do anything for you, please refrain from ever contacting us again" .

_Hello_

I read, thinking wow, proper forms of address really have gone out of fashion in the Internet Age.

_Hello,_

_I am Zuhal. I am 12 years old._

_I live in Farnast_ (one of the southern provinces of Ruritania, close to the border. It's best known for it's flourishing drug market, camps of IDPs and the likelihood of not living to see your 30th birthday). _I have big family. They live with me. 5 brothers 2 sisters and my parents._

 _We live here 5 years._ _We can't go back home because live is stopped there_

_We heard live is easy in Europa. we want to go. my parents go with people smugglers._

_I dont want to go with them. I'm afraid._

_But my parents say we have to go. I have to go with them on the dangerous way._

_The way is very hard. There is a desert. I can't walk as far as grown-ups. Perhaps thirst kill us._

_perhaps bad people find us. Or we are arrested._

  _maybe we drown in the sea._

_maybe the wave carry me to the beach like Alan Kurdy._

_Dear Mr. Ambassador, please help. I want to become refugees in a peaceful place._

I stared at the screen blankly. I have seen e-mails and letters like this before. Many people write to the Embassy, or to the Ambassador directly, asking for information, help, asylum. There is usually a polite, non-committal answer for them.

But this...?

We talk about the #refugeecrisis (please note the hashtag, this is how news are made today...), we see the pictures. Ludwig has had half a dozen meetings with correspondents of various media outlets, and with the Ruritanian government in the last two weeks alone. Programs are being discussed, and words are being juggled. There's Roderich with his Border Protection Act, and the billions of dollars (or euros) invested in infrastructure, public health, security, education, good governance... you name it. (The fact that a good part of that money disappears between pledge and implementation is well known, but we tend to not bring it up publicly.)

My fingers hovered over the keyboard. There are set phrases for such situations. There is an official language.

There was also the possibility that this was a fake.

But none of that made me feel better.

I opened another window and googled "refugees in Farnast". I shouldn't have. The pictures were awful, and aside from a couple of websites praising local relief programs run by an international NGO, nothing the least bit good came up.

 _"Farnast is a place forgotten by the world, forgotten by God and by the government. There is no hope here."_ \- I read.

Just then, Gilbert stepped into the office, presumably looking for candy (I keep some easily accessible in a bowl on my desk, and the good stuff hidden in a drawer).

He caught me staring fixedly at the screen.

"What are you looking at?" he asked, munching chocolate.

Wordlessly, I turned the screen towards him.

I watched him read, and reached for a chocolate bar myself.

" _Dear Mr. Ambassador, please help. I want to become refugees in a peaceful place._ " Gilbert snorted. "Oh, that's ridiculous! Who do you think wrote this?"

"A 12-year old girl...?" I suggested.

" _Of course_." Gilbert shook his head, sneering. "No. Her parents, or some uncle. Perhaps a brother. If there even _is_ a little girl. This is nonsense, Matthew. Of course it's a fake, and it's designed to get people all weepy and 'oh, the poor little child, let's help her'. But there are rules, and they were put in place for a reason. _And we follow them_."

I averted my eyes. I didn't want to look at him right now.

"Well," Gilbert said, abruptly changing the subject, "what's on the agenda today?"

I didn't need to turn back to the screen to check his calendar, after all I had scheduled most of the appointments myself.

"You're having lunch at the Chamber of Commerce, followed by a meeting at the Ministry of Justice, in preparation of the consultations next months. At four o'clock, you are meeting the new BBC correspondent for an off-the-record talk on the current political situation and Germany's perspective."

"A new correspondent," Gilbert mused. "Huh. Is he hot?"

I did my best to keep a dispassionate expression. "I have no idea, sir."

"Aren't you supposed to know those things?"

"I can get you his phone number, if you're interested," I said dryly.

Gilbert chuckled. "Let's wait until after I've met him, shall we?" He took another piece of chocolate. "Okay, then. Nothing tonight?"

"There's a fundraiser for a local children's hospital at the Australian Embassy; you have received an invitation. Shall I confirm your attendance?"

"Ugh, Simone and her moral conscience." Gilbert pulled a face. "Nah. Unless Ludwig isn't going to be there? I suppose one of us should show face."

"The Ambassador has a dinner at the Palace, in honor of the American Ambassador. He's leaving next week and introducing his successor."

"Good riddance. I won't miss him."

"Sadiq is going, though."

"That should be good enough. Go ahead and decline on my behalf."

"Okay."

"And Matthew...? Don't get too creative with that e-mail. Stick to the official language, no matter what your bleeding little heart tells you. We can't safe the _entire_ world. It would be bad for business."

My fingernails dug into the skin of my palms beneath the desk.

"Sure."

I ended up sending the standard reply, but I did add contact details of the local UNHCR office.

It did not make me feel better.

Nor did any of the chocolate I ate afterwards.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aylan Kurdi (his name is misspelled by Zuhal) was a three-year-old Syrian boy whose image made global headlines after he drowned in the Mediterranean Sea, as part of the Syrian refugee crisis.


	4. Mix & Match

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If Lovino tells us that "the security situation has deteriorated", what he usually means is "the apocalypse hasn't officially been announced yet, but it's a definite possibility".

On Monday morning, I idly doodled little flowers and animals into my notebook, while listening to Ludwig droning on about the Ministry of Finance's plans for tax reforms and how they were going to affect us (not at all).

We had already had the press report from Sadiq - unrest in the North, speculations about the President's health, and a squabble between parliamentarians who couldn't separate business from pleasure.

Gilbert was now waiting his turn, presumably with news regarding the upcoming consultations, looking  as bored as I felt.

Down the other end of the table, near the window, Lovino looked about ready to drop his head on his arms and go to sleep. I wonder what keeps him up at night. Lovino always worries about everyone and anything, that's his job, but if he looks more tired than usual, there's a good chance bad things are about to happen.

It seemed like Lilli was the only one who was paying attention - but then, that's _her_ job.

When Ludwig concluded his monologue mentioning that he was going to be out of the office on Thursday (and looking vaguely apologetic as he did so), Sadiq nudged me under the table.

"What's on Thursday?" he whispered.

"It's personal."

Sadiq raised his eyebrows. "He doesn't do personal."

"With Feliciano he does. It's their anniversary. No matter how badly he wants to go to work on that day, Feliciano will have his head if he does. On a silver plate, with parsley and cranberry sauce."

In fact, Feliciano has already shown me the plate and mentioned that it has Ludwig's name on it if he dares to forget their anniversary (again). _"It's once every year, Mattie"_ , he said, frowning, _"On the same day. How hard can it be?"_

"Gentlemen, _may_ we continue?" Gilbert admonished, sending us a stern look from his side of the table.

Sadiq and I immediately stopped our whispering and straightened up.

"Thank you," Gilbert said drily and went on to give an equally dry report on the state of preparations for the interstate consultations. He may have a flair for the dramatic, but sadly, it does not extend to his reports.

After Gilbert had finished, Lovino concluded an altogether unpleasant morning meeting by advising us that movement restrictions were in place as of _now_ due to an increase in threat warnings.

Cheers, I thought to myself. No wonder Lovino looked like he hadn't slept for a couple of nights. If Lovino tells us that "the security situation has deteriorated", what he usually means is _"the apocalypse hasn't officially been announced yet, but it's a definite possibility"._

Lovino is the Embassy's security adviser. I had my suspicions the job was created specifically for him, as an excuse for Ludwig to keep his all-time favorite bodyguard on staff, but as it turns out, there are a number of security advisers at German Embassies worldwide. It's no coincidence, however, that Lovino is here with us. Ludwig requested him for the job, and he pulled some strings to make it happen.

I can imagine the HR department wasn't particularly pleased, given the family connection they now share through Feliciano. However, that family connection is the reason why Lovino will protect Ludwig (and by extension all of us) better than anyone else: when they first met, he protected Ludwig because it was his job to do so. Now he does it, because his little brother would never forgive him if he let anything happen to Ludwig. And Feliciano is just about the only person in the world Lovino loves.

Ludwig and Lovino work well together, though. They are not pals, far from it, actually, but they are both professionals and admire that in each other. When Ludwig tells Lovino to jump, he jumps, and vice versa. There is implicit trust, without many words or grand gestures.

I believe I like Lovino. It's not that easy to tell, because Lovino isn't exactly a likeable person. He is moody and grumpy, and his sense of humor is dark, blunt, and often hurtful to others. He is intense about everything he does, even if it's a pastime like soccer. But he's a good guy, and he cares, although it may sometimes seem otherwise.

Which is why I made a point of asking Lovino about his holiday after the meeting.

"Good" was the short reply, before he got right back to business: "I'm headed over to the Spanish Embassy. Courtesy visit, the new Ambassador brought a whole new team with him, and I'm to meet their new head of security at ten."

"Well, that explains why Mercedes hasn't been answering my e-mails. She's probably gone, if he's brought in a new secretary."

Lovino nodded. "There's space in the car. You should come along, meet your counterpart."

"The Ambassador..." I began.

Lovino waved my concerns away. "He'll be fine without you, for an hour or two. Contrary to public opinion, Ludwig is able to make his own coffee, take calls and use a photocopier."

I tried not to take that as an insult, because I knew it probably wasn't meant that way. Lovino is the only person at the Embassy who speaks without a politeness-filter.  It's refreshing, but sometimes it makes you wince, too.

"Okay," I said.

 

* * *

 

 

The Spanish Embassy is in the neighborhood, and we could have walked. Since Lovino is both paranoid and overprotective, we didn't. Who knows who could have been lurking behind market stands and garbage heaps...

It is a nice building, neoclassical, with a fountain in the front yard and surrounded by a lush garden. Lovino huffed when an actual peacock stepped out between two hibiscus bushes.

We were greeted by a guard who led us inside, where we got visitor passes and Lovino had to leave his firearm. I am sure he carried several other weapons, and  I can only assume the Spanish guards suspected it, but we all politely refrained from mentioning it.

Somebody had called the head of security, and she came downstairs to greet us, a tall, dark haired woman who looked as if her personal idea of fun consisted of triathlons and evenings spent at the firing range. Lovino gave her a quick once-over, apparently decided that he didn't instantly hate her, even if she was too attractive for the job, and proceeded to ask about her first impressions of the city. It could have been small talk, but it probably wasn't.

I trailed them upstairs and left them at Veronica's (that's her name) office, heading out in search of the Ambassador's office. It's usually easy to find, and once you've located the Ambassador, you are certain to find his secretary somewhere close by.

I found her one floor up and to the left, sitting in a comfy little room wedged between the Ambassador's office and the tea kitchen. Her name was Sofia, she spoke with a thick Spanish accent and instantly offered me coffee and biscuits, and who was I to say no. We exchanged contact details and she told me that her boss had actually been planning to pay Ludwig a visit, and could I help arrange that?

I could. We got along splendidly.

"Tomorrow afternoon?" I suggested, Ludwig's schedule in mind.

"Wait, I'll see if he's available." I expected her to pick up the phone, but instead she called out "Antonio?"

"Sí?"

Footsteps in the next room, then the door opened and slender man dressed in a sleek dark blue suit stepped into Sofia's office.

"Antonio, this is Matthew Williams, from the German Embassy," Sofia said, smiling at him. "Matthew, meet Ambassador Antonio Fernández Carriedo."

I got up and shook his hand, dumbfounded.

The new Spanish Ambassador was about ten years younger than he should have been. He was also remarkably handsome, with a slight tan, curly brown hair and very green eyes. His smile was dazzling.

I stared at him, puzzled. He was _not_ what I had expected.

"Nice to meet you," he said, before launching into a barrage of questions cloaked by pleasant chatter. In the next four or five minutes, Ambassador Fernández Carriedo learned more about me, the German Embassy, and life in Ruritania than most people do when spending an entire day with me. His open, cheerful manner is completely disarming.

He is also, quite obviously, gay.

I have a good eye for those things, which is a bit ironic, because that is a sixth sense that will never do me any good (unlike telepathy or night vision, those would have been both cool and useful).

 _Gilbert is going to love him_ , I thought.

We were discussing Ruritanian food (awful, the less said about it, the better), when the small office got even more crowded, because Veronica and Lovino joined us.

The Spanish ambassador looked up, smiled at his head of security, and focused on Lovino.

Now, I am not Feliciano, which is to say, I am not a hopeless romantic. I do not normally believe in love on first sight. But that first meeting between Antonio and Lovino...?

Well, there was definitely something.

Maybe love on first sight. Maybe just an attraction.

In any case, it was unfortunately one-sided, because Lovino took one good look at Antonio and decided he hated him on principle, because no one had a right to be that nice, and charming, and handsome.

 

* * *

 

 

Predictably, Ludwig had not been happy when he was told that the Embassy would host Peter Kirkland's birthday party. But since Feliciano had already called Maria Kirkland and made all the necessary arrangements, there was very little he could do.

Therefore, Wednesday afternoon found us (that is, Ludwig, Feliciano, Lilli and me, everybody else either had real work to do or had at least pretended to be insanely busy) in the garden, putting the finishing touches to the party decorations and inspecting the buffet.

"Let's go over the guest list again," Ludwig said, looking about as nervous as if the Secretary General of the United Nations had announced a visit. I felt a bit sorry for him, but only a bit.

"Sure." I pulled a sheet of paper out of my notebook. "Arthur and Maria Kirkland, with Peter and Jamie. Ivan and Ekaterina Braginsky with Natalya. Erzsébet Hérdérvary with Zlatan and Esma. And Feliciano insisted on inviting Roderich Edelstein, too." I pulled a face. Not his best idea, if you ask me.

Ludwig, too, looked uncomfortable. "Well, it can't be helped now. Who else?"

"Two children from Peter's class at school, they'll arrive with the Kirklands. Im Yong Soo, he's the son of the South Korean deputy head of mission. Lin Yi Ling, she's the daughter of someone over at the Chinese Embassy.  The Swedish Ambassador is bringing his son - Erik, I believe? And Deniz Adnan. Sadiq has an appointment, though."

Just then, the British Ambassador and his family arrived; that is, Arthur Kirkland, his Argentinean wife Maria, their son Peter and baby Jamie.

Everybody hugged and kissed, and Jamie was duly admired. Feliciano gave Peter a birthday gift and we watched him unwrap it, but I didn't get to actually see what it was, because I was distracted by the arrival of the Russian party.

Ivan Braginsky is a giant of a man, and you wouldn't believe the stories they tell about him. Most of them aren't nice. Lovino handles him as a security threat; and he probably is.

He arrived with his wife Ekaterina, who is commonly called Katya or Katyusha, a very pretty blonde. Her breasts are the stuff of legends, and she is very embarrassed by the fact that everybody keeps mentioning them. Their daughter Natalya, looked around curiously, spotted Peter and ran off to greet him. Probably by tackling him to the ground. Natalya is a wild child, and that's putting it mildly.

After that, everybody seemed to arrive all at once, and it got very loud, at least until the cake had been cut and the children had their mouths full.

I was stuck between Katya Braginsky, whose ample breasts quivered with every breath she took (we both tried to ignore that fact) and Erzsébet, who was openly staring at them.

"You're not gay," I hissed at her when Katya had left to try and pull Natalya and Zlatan apart, who were fighting and rolling around on the ground. Erzsébet was watching her son lose a fight to a girl with a sort of detached curiosity. She did not seem altogether surprised or upset.

Erzsébet now turned to me and shrugged. "I can appreciate a beautiful thing when I see it, no matter where that is," she said. "Though someone should tell Katya not to wear push-up bras. She really doesn't need them."

She turned to look at me. "And what about you, Matthew?"

"What about me?"

"No interest in Katya's more physical charms? I hear she's very friendly. And generous."

"Please," I huffed.

"Something else, then?" She suggested, making a show of looking around. "Ah yes. How about Berwald? He's single, and I'm told he hates it."

"Yes, and he's also about fifteen years older than me, twice my size and he never talks. No thanks. Are you trying to set me up with somebody?"

She smiled. "I might be."

"Well, good luck with that."

"Don't be so negative," she chastised. "I'm very good at what I'm doing. Did you know that I matched Feli and Ludwig?"

I hadn't know that, but it explains Lovino's intense dislike of her. He is not exactly happy with that match, even though he respects and probably even likes Ludwig.

I shook my head.

"Well, I did. And look at them now. Such a lovely couple. So well suited to each other."

I wisely kept my thoughts on that to myself. "Well," I told her, "if you think you can find me a moderately attractive guy with no antisocial habits, who can cook, isn't obsessed with sports, doesn't mind cleaning and has no interest in sex, go right ahead. Bonus points if he has a dog and doesn't want kids."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maria, Arthur's wife, is the personification of Argentina. Their son Peter is Sealand. Baby Jamie could be the Falklands. Erik is Ladonia and Deniz is Sadiq's son, the Turkish Republic of North Cyprus (TRNC).


	5. Kinder, Kinder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matthew attends a birthday party, and Lovino saves the day.

Trying to explain asexuality to people who have never heard of it is never fun, but explaining it to Erzsébet Hérdérvary was particularly discouraging.

"Wait," she said. "So you're telling me you don't like sex?"

"No," I said _\- but that would also be true -_ "I am telling you that I don't feel sexual attraction. To anyone, ever. You are about as attractive to me as Feliciano, or any random person I meet on the street; that is to say, not at all. That's not to say I can't appreciate that people are beautiful, or handsome, or that whatever, but I don't look at them and go 'wow, he's hot'." And, because she looked downright horrified, I quickly added: "You _are_ very beautiful, I can see that. I'm just not attracted to you. It's like a gay man looking at a woman, except I'm not gay."

"Okay," Erzsébet said slowly, "But what about sex? I mean, you say that you're not attracted to anybody, but can you still have sex? With anyone?"

It was a _really_ stupid question and an insult to her intelligence, but I chalked that up to shock. I guess asexuality can be an unsettling concept to some people.

I shrugged. "Of course I _can_. It's just not particularly appealing. Would you have sex with someone you're not attracted to?"

She seemed to think about that for a moment. "I don't know. Probably not...?"

"There you go."

We watched Katya scold Natalya in rapid Russian for hitting Zlatan and getting her pretty little dress dirty. The girl was red-faced and sullen, her stance defiant. One of her blond braids was dissolving into soft curls and there were grass stains all over her. Katya bent down awkwardly, her breasts even more on display than before.

"That's _such_ a shame," Erzsébet said finally, and I was for a moment unsure whether she was referring to my asexuality or the fact that Katya had straightened up and rearranged her decollete.

"I've never been one to refuse a challenge, though," Erzsébet continued. "So. Tell me what you like."

"I just did."

"And you were serious? Well. Okay then. Male, domesticated, not a sports fan, no particular interest in sex. Shouldn't be impossible. I think we're looking for an academic type, long-term bachelor, possibly raised by a single working mother. Is clergy out?"

"I'm not religious," I said. The whole conversation was ludicrous.

Erzsébet nodded, as if she had just filed that bit of information for later use. The thought scared me.

Maybe it hadn't been she who had divorced Roderich. Maybe it had been the other way around. I couldn't imagine living with her permanently...

She smiled, and it was a lovely thing to look at. "Well, then. I'll see what I can do for you, Matthew."

"Please don't."

Erzsébet laughed as she turned away.

I watched her leave, and just then, Feliciano arrived at my side. "Is she teasing you?" His tone of voice was sympathetic, as if he, too, had been the victim of her teasing. "She can be a bit..." - he was obviously searching for a word that wouldn't be too insulting - "... much. Uh... well, you probably know what I mean."

I nodded. Yes, I knew exactly what he meant.

"Lovino is miserable," Feliciano said conversationally, pointing in the general direction of his brother, who was following Ludwig around like a second shadow.

"Why? Doesn't he like children?"

"It's not that." Feliciano frowned. "Even though they are more difficult to guard than adults, I believe. It's just that this entire party, the whole idea of it, bothers him. Having a bunch of high profile targets outside in an open space for no other reason than a child's birthday? He asked me this morning if I was deliberately trying to make his life more difficult."

"Are you?" I deadpanned.

"Of course not! And I'm not punishing him for the thing with Antonio, either."

Now _that_ caught my attention. "What thing with Antonio?"

"Antonio Fernández Carriedo, the new Spanish Ambassador? He came by the other day to introduce himself. He's great, charming, and funny, and unpretentious."

_Not to mention, drop-dead gorgeous..._

"It's a rare thing, for someone of his rank. Anyway, he came by, and we invited him to stay for dinner. Lovino was _awful_ to him. Okay, maybe Antonio was a bit over-enthusiastic, but he was just trying to be nice. And even if he did flirt with Lovi a bit - well, that's hardly the first time a guy has done so. My brother is handsome, can't blame them, right? Anyway, Lovino did not take it well."

"I probably should have warned you," I said, feeling a bit guilty. "They met when Lovino took me to the Spanish Embassy to meet some of the new members of staff. It was... _interesting_ , to say the least. Antonio seemed quite taken with your brother, so I'm sure that any flirting on his part was deliberate. Unfortunately, he did not leave a favorable first impression, it seems."

Feliciano sighed and took a sip of white wine. "My brother," he said with an air of unusual gravity, "can be quite difficult."

I was about to reply something inconsequential, when a scream rang out, high pitched and panicky.

One of the children.

And it did not sound like their usual cries when they were playing; this was genuine distress.

Heads turned, trying to locate the source of the scream.

There is a rather large goldfish pond in the garden, where Ludwig keeps fat, pretty koi carps, and the water lilies his predecessor planted. Esma stood near the edge of the pond, the water reaching up to her knees, looking unsure whether to advance further into the water or not.

The reason she had screamed was not immediately apparent.

Unlike in the movies, drowning is a silent killer in real life. The child floating in the pond wasn't trashing about or screaming for help. Maybe he had struggled. Maybe he had attempted to call out, but the effort to keep his head above the water, to keep breathing, had been too much.

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught movement. Ludwig and Lovino, both running towards the pond.

Roderich beat them to it, rushing into the water to save his son, grabbing Zlatan, frantic, desperate.

Lovino caught Esma, lifted her up out of the water and deposited her on firm ground, a little way from the pond. She had begun to cry.

Almost instinctively, we had all moved closer.

Roderich laid Zlatan's still body onto the grass, dropping to his knees by his side. The little boys eyes were open and glossy, and from where I stood, it didn't look like he was breathing. Next to me, Feliciano gave a muffled whimper.

Lovino, with the efficiency of too much practice in similar situations, pushed Roderich aside and performed CPR. Somebody was screaming for a 911-call. Esma was still crying, now joined by Peter and Jamie, who probably didn't know what was going on, and Feliciano, who did.

Erzsébet had joined Roderich, pale as a sheet as she watched Lovino's efforts.

Lovino straightened into a sitting position, and for a terrifying moment I believed that all was lost, that he had given up on Zlatan.

"Somebody call an ambulance and get me a blanket, and a pillow." Lovino's voice was rough.

Ludwig instantly turned and ran off towards the house.

Erzsébet said something nobody could quite decipher, her voice high pitched with fear. It took me a moment to realize that she had reverted to her native tongue. We all got the gist of it, though - she was asking if her son was alive.

Lovino smiled, which was a rare enough that somebody should have taken a picture.

"Yes," he said.

His captive audience gasped with relief, myself included.

"Careful," Lovino admonished, watching both Roderich and Erzsébet bend over the child. "Don't jostle him. I think I've broken a rib, possibly more."

Roderich nodded. Both parents were crouching on the grass next to Zlatan, talking to him softly, and I was relieved to hear him answer in a whispered mix of German and Hungarian. If he was talking, it couldn't be so bad.

Broken rib or not, Lovino had saved his life.

Ludwig came jogging towards us from the house. "The ambulance is on its way," he reported.

"That won't be necessary," Ivan Braginsky said, squinting into the sky above the Embassy building as if looking for something. "It should be here any minute."

He was right. We all heard it before we saw it, a low rumble, getting louder fast, like the buzzing of a very large, very irritated insect. When the helicopter came into view above the surrounding buildings, it was making enough noise to drown out any attempt at questioning Ivan. It touched down with surprising grace and precision on the soccer field just west of the Embassy.

"Go!" I saw Ludwig shout at Lovino rather than heard him.

Lovino gave a curt nod, rose, and broke into a run, presumably to let the paramedics in. He return with three serious looking men in dark grey uniform not two minutes later, and they immediately proceeded to getting Zlatan onto a gurney. There was a brief discussion, during which it was decided that Erzsébet would fly with them, while Roderich would follow them in the car with Esma. Still, everybody was screaming to make themselves heard over the noise of the waiting helicopter.

And then, they were gone.

Ludwig turned to Ivan. "How?" he asked curtly.

The Russian Ambassador shrugged, looking rather pleased with himself. "General Mardak, chief of police for the capital, owes me a favor or two. They have a medical service, equipped with two helicopters and crews. Usually they are called in for major traffic accidents. Russia may or may not have sponsored those helicopters in the first place." He smiled briefly, looking for all the world like a large, happy cat.

Ludwig seemed to contemplate this statement, and he was probably trying to decide whether or not that speedy rescue now put _him_ in debt with Ivan (not a good position to be in, if you ask me).

"Thank you," he said finally.

Ivan waved it away. "Please. It could have been my daughter."

Sufficient to say that the party came to a rather abrupt end after that. Everybody gathered up their children, drivers were called, and the staff of the residence moved in to clear away the remnants of the buffet.

Ludwig quietly thanked Lovino, then moved on to talk to Feliciano, who still looked fairly upset. I couldn't blame him.

"Uff," Lovino sat down on the grass next to me, and it rather looked as if he was falling. "That was a close call. Remind me to _never_ have any kids. They are way too much trouble."

"I don't think you're in any imminent danger," I joked weakly. "That was pretty cool, though."

He shrugged. "It was lucky his sister saw him and called out. It doesn't take that long for someone to drown."

"Well, you and Esma are the heroes of the day, it seems. Did you get any cake?"

"No, but there's a thought. You want some, too?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Kinder, Kinder", the title of this chapter, is German, and probably translates to something like "Oh, children!" Depending on tone of voice and circumstances, it could be an exasperated sigh or an expression of surprise.
> 
> It is not uncommon to break a rib (or two) while performing CPR. Obviously, it's not encouraged, but sometimes it can't be helped.
> 
> And, note to self: telling your co-workers that you're heading back inside to drown Bosnia gets you weird looks. Oh well...


	6. An Unexpected Visit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unexpected visit stirs up trouble at the Embassy and Lovino has to ask a favor

Have you ever watched the news on TV and seen the President, Prime Minister, Chancellor or Foreign Minister of your home country give a statement while standing in front of a foreign flag, an exotic backdrop, the seat of government of some other nation? Have you ever thought _'wow, he/she gets to travel so much, I would love that'_?

Have you ever wondered how much work goes into each and every one of those statements?

Probably not.

Well. Let me tell you something: it takes weeks of careful preparation, many extra hours and many late nights to produce such a statement. It takes careful planning, countless phone calls and e-mails, some negotiating, a fair junk of money, and the dedication of at least a dozen people who pull strings in the background.

There is an entire department at the Foreign Office (at most foreign offices around the globe, actually) dedicated to ensuring that nothing goes awry when the boss travels.

But...

One of the most elementary rules of diplomacy is this: never do something yourself when you can make somebody else do it for you.

Which is why the Protocol Department called me, and a cheery tenor voice announced "The Minister is planning to travel to Ruritania". There was an expectant pause, as if the person at the other end of the line was expecting me to jump out of my chair and start rejoicing.

When I didn't do so, Mr. Protocol got down to business and announced the date of the impeding visit.

That was when I lost it.

We had _two weeks_ to prepare.

 

* * *

 

Half an hour later, I sat on the leather sofa in the Ambassador's office, trying to keep my sweaty hands to myself and avoiding Ludwig's steady, blue-eyed gaze until he turned to  look at Gilbert.

"Well...?"

Gilbert shrugged. "The timing is a bit unfortunate."

" _A bit_?" Sadiq coughed. "It's a nightmare. Did you read the e-mail? He's bringing a press delegation along. Current head count: eight. Eight journalists to be pampered and coddled and driven around."

"Is he staying overnight?" Ludwig asked calmly.

"No," I told him. "He'll arrive in the morning and depart in the afternoon. We are the second stop on this trip."

"Thank God," Sadiq said fervently.

"Size of the delegation?" Gilbert asked.

I shrunk further into the cushions. "Forty-three, including press and security."

Gilbert cursed under his breath. Lovino did so loudly and colorfully. "No fucking way," he announced, looking at Ludwig. "You need to tell them that's not possible. We can't handle forty-three."

"How many _can_ we handle?" Ludwig asked. "Give me a number."

"Zero," Lovino grumbled.

Ludwig sent him a long look.

"Okay. I'll check the logistics and get back to you."

"Thank you. Sadiq? You'll handle the press program. Make sure to coordinate with Matthew. Gilbert, I need you to meet with the head of the protocol department at the Ministry of Foreign Affair and the President's chief of protocol. Take Lilli along. We need to ensure that there's proper translation this time, last year's press conference at the MfA was a disaster. Matthew, get back on the phone with Berlin. We need names."

I just barely resisted the urge to salute. Ludwig sounded like a general deploying his troupes, and we were definitely going to war. Never mind that the enemy wasn't some dictatorial foreign regime, but our very own government and administration.

 

* * *

 

Lovino is either exceptionally bad at hiding his feelings, or he just doesn't bother. My bet is on the latter, though.

This means that when Lovino is unhappy, everybody notices. And he'll damn well make sure that everybody suffers along, too.

Right now, Lovino was _very_ unhappy.

By some stroke of bad luck, I happened to be the first person to walk into his office after what I had silently dubbed _'the meeting of doom',_ so I got the full rant. Anyone who came in after me probably got the condensed version, which I am sure was still impressive enough.

I listened to Lovino vent his frustration and insult everybody from Ludwig, to the unknown multitudes at the Protocol Department and the Minister himself. It was not as if I had much of a choice, and he needed an audience. I also picked up a few words I had never heard before. When Lovino switched from German to Italian, I decided to interrupt. Lovino and Feliciano have been communicating in German for so long that neither of them has even a trace of an accent, but every now and again they'll slip in an Italian word or phrase, usually when things get emotional. Whatever Feliciano calls Ludwig when they're alone, I'm pretty sure it's an Italian endearment, and I know for a fact that he slips into his native language when they fight. I had never heard Lovino recur to Italian before, so I knew it was a bad sign.

"Lovino."

He ignored me. Italian seems to be a very apt language for emotional outbursts.

"Lovino!"

"What?" He snapped, head turning towards me.

"This isn't helping," I pointed out. "I mean, it probably makes you feel better, but I'd like to remind you that I certainly _didn't_ invite the Minister to Ruritania. Believe me, I would be terribly happy if he decided to stay in Berlin. But I don't think that's likely to happen, so we need to prepare."

Lovino took a deep breath. I held mine in turn, hoping that this was a sign of him actually calming down, instead of preparing to breathe fire at me.

"Okay."

"Okay," I echoed, somewhat surprised.

"Where do we start?"

I waved the papers I held in my left at him. "Names and numbers. I have the list of everyone who'll be coming here, including security. First, we need to find cars for forty-three people. And drivers. I don't have any experience with that, can we actually rent cars here?"

"Can we? Yes. Do we want to? That's an entirely different question," Lovino replied, frowning. "First of all, it's fucking expensive."

"Don't worry, we can send the bill to the Protocol Department. That much I know. They'll cover all extra costs related to the visit. It won't have to come out of our own budget."

"It's still a security risk. You never know who has been tampering with a rented car. Or if the driver perhaps holds a personal grudge against Germany because we deported his uncle or something."

He had a point there. But I didn't see many other options.

"Think the Austrians will let us borrow a car or two? After all, you _did_ save their Ambassador's son."

"Probably. If we ask nicely." Lovino seemed to consider the idea for a little while. "Give them a call. But that doesn't cover all the extra cars we'll need." A frown crossed his face, then he sighed. "Oh, _fine._ "

He pulled a sleek black cell phone out of his pocket, one of the newer _Blackberry_ models, I believe, and typed a quick text. When he looked up, his expression was a mix of annoyance and sarcastic humor. "You better be grateful, and the boss, too. I now owe Antonio a favor, and I'm fairly certain he'll lose no time calling it in."

I gaped, trying to wrap my mind around that statement.

"Wait. You just texted Antonio? As in, the Spanish Ambassador?"

"Do you happen to know anybody else named Antonio?" Lovino rolled his eyes, but a chime from his phone distracted him. "There. He'll give us five cars. That should be enough."

" _Why_ do you have Antonio's phone number?"

Lovino shrugged. "Because he gave it to me. If a man is stupid enough to hand out business cards with his personal cell number on them, he shouldn't be too surprised if people take advantage."

I breathed an incredulous laugh. "Lovino, I'm pretty sure that was just for you. He gave me one of his regular cards for Ludwig, and believe me, it did not list his cell phone number."

Lovino scowled at me.

I grinned. "He likes you. And he is totally going to use that favor to ask you out."

"Hell no."

"He will, I'm telling you."

"I hate my life," Lovino growled theatrically.


	7. Smalltalk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matthew frets, contemplates quitting is job, and meets the man of his dreams (not really). And Gilbert should probably have chosen a different profession.

The next few days were a blur of frenzied activity. We held a number of meetings, the increasingly tense atmosphere making each of them look more like a war council. You'd have thought we were preparing for an invasion, not a visit of our own Minister.

I ran into Gilbert in the hallway after his second meeting with the Ruritanian Protocol, and from the look on his face, it had not gone well.

"Bad news?" I asked, trying to sound sympathetic, but really only worried that whatever had gone wrong would pile even more work onto my already overflowing desk.

Gilbert scowled, something he does almost as impressively as Lovino when he puts his mind to it. The difference is, Lovino is naturally bad-tempered, so you get used to his moods after a certain interim period of fear and confusion. With Gilbert, you can never tell what it will take to piss him off, and more importantly, what a pissed-of Gilbert might do to you. I'm told by reliable sources that he once threw a chair across a conference table and right through a window.

"The longer I'm here, the less I understand why we ever decided to invade this fucking mess of a place," Gilbert responded to my query. He was fuming, I imagined that I could actually see the smoke rising from his nostrils. There's an angry dragon in the house, people. St. George to the rescue!

Fair point, though, I had begun to ask myself that same question a while ago, although in more careful phrasing.

"Ah - it seemed like a good idea at the time...? Stopping terrorism and bringing liberty and peace to the people of Ruritania, and you know, _stuff_."

"Yeah," he said heavily, " _stuff_. Oil and opium, to be more precise. So we marched in an installed this fucking useless puppet-show that calls itself a democratic government but spends more time back-stabbing and bickering among itself than actually passing laws, or God forbid, governing. You can teach a bear to dance, but you can't teach this band of warlords and drug dealers the most basic rules of civilized comportment."

_Bless you, Gilbert_ , I thought, _how did you ever become a diplomat? Was the selection committee on a collective high when they decided you'd make a fine addition to the Service? Or where they simply bored with an endless progression of well-behaved, stream-lined candidates in pinstriped suits and decided to add a little flavor to the mix?_

"Well," I said, after having decided to voice those thoughts aloud, because I actually do have a sense of self-preservation and insulting the already fuming deputy ambassador seemed like a sure way to make my life miserable (more miserable than it already was, that is). "Did you have any success getting us the VIP treatment at the airport and the added security?"

"They said they would look into it," Gilbert spat. "Which means, no."

"Oh."

"It's no use. It was a fucking waste of time. I'm afraid, Ludwig will have to call the Minister."

"He what?" Okay, so I know that Ludwig Beilschmidt is a powerful man, and that the German Ambassador has quite a bit of political influence in Ruritania, given that Germany is the fourth largest donor within the international community. But I had not expected him to have the Ruritanian Minister of Foreign Affairs on speed-dial.

"The Minister's office approached us last week. He wants a visa for his son, to study in Germany," Gilbert explained.

I nodded. That made more sense. So it was going to be a deal, and possibly a dirty one at that. "Isn't that unlawful?" I asked dubiously. "I mean, there are rules about who gets a visa and who doesn't."

Gilbert shrugged. "It's a matter of interpretation."

I'm sure the consular department absolutely _loved_ that one.

But it did work.

Four days later, we had written assurance from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs that our Minister would be received with all due honors and that additional security, including road blocks and air surveillance, would be provided.

 

* * *

 

 

Of course, having fixed our problems with the Ministry did not mean that we had miraculously rid ourselves of all our problems. There was still a delegation of 43 people coming.

And really, our own colleagues in Berlin were more of a bother than they were of help.

\- For example:

_'The Embassy will provide appropriate transportation for the accompanying press delegation, preferably in the form of a designated press bus'_ one of the e-mails from the Protocol Department read.

"How in the world am I supposed to find an armored bus?" I asked the colleague on the phone incredulously. "You can't even rent cars here, for God's sake. It's just not feasible."

"It would be a minibus," she said.

"That's beside the point. There will be no bus, mini or other. We'll have to split the press delegation and put them in cars."

"They won't be happy about that," she warned. I could hear her frowning.

_Well, too bad._

"I really can't help it," I said.

\- Or:

_"2pm: Visit to the Palace Gardens and meeting with the coordinator of the restoration efforts,"_ I read aloud from the draft program. ( _Daft program_ would have been a more appropriate term.)

Lovino shook his head violently, crumpling his own copy of the document in his clenched fist.

"No. Absolutely not. We are not taking a delegation that size to an exposed area like the Palace Gardens and waiting for them to get shot at. Who came up with this nonsense?"

"According to Protocol, the Cultural Department asked for that particular meeting, because we are funding the restoration efforts. It's their pet project, apparently."

"Explain to me why we are spending millions on gardening while this country is about to slide back into civil war?" Lovino asked scathingly. "Because it is millions, right?"

I shrugged. "Uh... probably?"

Lovino's eyes narrowed. "Matthew. They are not visiting the fucking gardens."

Well. And guess who was the lucky person who got to sell that to the Protocol Department?

Right.

However, dreadful as the week was, I do remember bits of it fondly.

Mostly, because it turned out to be the week in which I met Mathias Kohler.

 

* * *

 

 

 To say that I met Mathias under unusual circumstances would be a bit of an understatement.

I had heard of him, of course. After all, Mathias Kohler is the Danish Ambassador to Ruritania and as such, one of my boss’s peers and acquaintances. I keep his contact details in my address book and I remember setting his placement card onto the lunch table not too long ago. But I had not seen him in person so far, and to tell you the truth, I wasn't too upset about that.

I'm a secretary. An Ambassador's secretary, who is fluent in three languages, can name all countries in the world with their capitals, and types faster than your eyes can follow, but a secretary no less. Diplomats, much like soldiers, are accustomed to hierarchy and they are keenly aware of their own position in that hierarchy… and everybody else's. To the average Ambassador, I am nothing, or at the very best a useful tool. There are some, like Antonio, who are less pretentious. There are others who have made either particularly good or particularly bad experiences with their own secretaries and therefore know how much power a good secretary truly wields and how important he or she is to the smooth flow of day-two-day business at an Embassy. Mostly, though, they ignore me.

Which is likely also due to the fact that I am male. If I was an even remotely attractive woman my age, I would probably get a few immoral offers and sexist comments. There's that old stereotype still floating around. Come to think of it, if it weren't for Feliciano, who is adorable and much better looking than me, people would probably suspect me of sleeping with Ludwig, given his sexual orientation.

But I digress. Let's get back to Mathias.

I met him at a cocktail party held in honor of a rather famous German architect who had just been commissioned to construct the new parliament building. Apparently, that was a big enough thing to prompt the Embassy's cultural department to throw him a party and exhibit some of his sketches. So the local diplomatic community and a few carefully selected public and political figures from the upper echelons of Ruritanian society ambled around in the Residence garden, waving champagne flutes and trying to convince each other of their own importance.

All members of staff were supposed to mingle and keep our guests well entertained, but since I hardly knew anyone and they all looked like they were faring pretty well, I had withdrawn to the background. It seemed the safer choice.

A couple of lawn chairs, a small wooden table and a rattan sofa had been moved over to the very edge of the terrace to make room for the guests and the cocktail tables covered in trailing white cloth. I sat on the sofa and pretended to be non-existent. I'm usually very good at that; it's an important skill in my profession. Which is why I was surprised and somewhat upset when somebody _did_ find me.

He dropped down into one of the lawn chairs and arranged his long limbs with a deep sigh before turning towards me. A pair of bluish-grey eyes gazed at me almost sleepily from beneath heavy lids.

“You look about as bored as I feel,” the stranger remarked. “Not a very exciting party, is it?”

I should have taken offense, after all it was my Embassy that had organized it. But unfortunately, he was completely right.

“Not exactly,” I admitted.

He extended a very large hand. It could easily have crushed two of mine. And here I had been thinking that Ivan Braginsky was the only ogre around. “I'm Mathias.”

“Matthew.”

He laughed. “Oh, so we share the same name. How about that?”

My first name isn't terribly uncommon, particularly if you add up all the regional varieties, so I wasn't all that surprised.

“So, what do you do, Matthew?”

“Currently, I'm seriously contemplating quitting my job and going back to university,” I replied drily.

For whatever reason, that remark earned me and appreciative look. Apparently, I had just managed to make myself interesting. I wasn't sure how I felt about that.

“What would you study?”

“Either something totally useful, and therefore perfectly boring, like engineering, or something wildly off track and utterly useless. Medieval German literature. Or Byzantine studies, I believe they offer that in Berlin. Maybe Philosophy."

"Sounds fun," Mathias said warmly. "What about Oenology?"

I looked at him. "I have absolutely no idea what that is." - _And I believe you just made that up. Seriously._

"The science and study of all aspects of wine and winemaking. Except the dirty part, where you actually grow and harvest it; you need more practical skills for that. Hence, a thoroughly superfluous and very pleasant field of study." He grinned, and laughter lines creased his face. He suddenly looked a lot less intimidating.

"Ah," I said. "Well. Then I am afraid, I would not be particularly good at it. I don't drink. Ever."

Usually, that sort of statement startles people, and you either get incredulous protest or careful avoidance/egg-shell walking in return. Most people will either assume that you are some sort of religious nutjob, or just a plain idiot, or that you or someone in your family has a history of alcoholism. Both are equally untrue in my case. I just dislike the taste and smell of alcohol, it's as simple as that.

"Shame," he said lightly, thereby defying my expectations regarding his response.

I shrugged. "I don't think I'm missing out on much, to be honest."

"For me," he clarified. "And here I was hoping to get you drunk and have my wicked way with you."

I gulped. So far, I hadn't been aware that we had been flirting - had there been flirting? at all? - and that statement was a lot more straightforward than I was used to.

"Are you always this blunt?" I asked wryly.

He winked at me. "There's a reason I'm still single."

"I don't doubt it," I muttered, and he laughed. "That was a joke, right?" I eyed him suspiciously.

He shrugged. "Drunk people aren't particularly good company. Also..."

"Let me guess - I'm not your type?"

Mathias eyed me thoughtfully, as if that was a question he hadn't actually considered before, and as if it warranted a thorough examination. He was more than a bit odd, I decided.

"No," he said after a little while, "that's not the issue. But I honestly don't believe I'm yours."

He was right of course, because I don't _have_ a type. Since I don't experience sexual attraction to anyone, there's no difference in whether somebody is blond and tall or petite and dark-haired. I will be equally not-attracted to both of them. Now, that's not to say that I don't have an aesthetic appreciation for beautiful people, or that I don't realize when somebody looks good in what they are wearing, but I have never seen somebody and thought _'I'd like to peel you out of that tailored suit'._

However, if that was truly what Mathias meant, he would have been the very first person to accurately guess my sexual orientation. And odd though he was, it seemed unlikely.

"What makes you say that?" I asked.

He shrugged. "It's just a feeling."

"It's an accurate feeling," I said. I meant it to be a compliment, but I realized belatedly that it probably came out as an insult. "I'm sorry," I added hurriedly.

Mathias turned to look at me. His face was calm and did not give away his feelings. "That's okay," he said. "You're still the most interesting person I have talked to all evening. Which, I'm afraid, isn't saying much, in present company."

A shadow fell over me. "Mathias," Gilbert said cheerily, "charming as ever aren't you?"

I looked up to find him standing behind me, a glass of white wine in his left, and a mocking grin on his face.

"I'm not getting paid enough to be charming," Mathias replied.

"I doubt you could manage it, no matter what they were paying you," Gilbert said, and I winced. Once again, diplomacy at its best. Well done, Gilbert.

Mathias didn't appear to be offended, though. Or maybe he was, and he merely hid it well. "Well, none of us are here because we actually _want_ to be here, Gilbert, are we?" he asked smoothly, and from the look on Gilbert's face I could tell that it was a low blow.

Not for the first time, I wondered if the chair-throwing incident was what had prompted the HR department to send Gilbert to a remote and unpleasant place like Ruritania. It probably was.

That thought also made me wonder what the others had done.

It wasn't all that hard to guess with creeps like Ivan or Francis (ugh), and we all knew that Roderich was here because it was the only way he got to see his children more than twice per year; but the others? What had Ludwig done to fall from grace? Or Mathias?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Medieval German literature, Byzantine studies and Oenology are all subjects that you can actually study at German universities. I checked. Personally, I think I'd have a lot of fun with Byzantine studies...
> 
> Also, should you have ever considered joining the foreign service for all the fancy cocktail parties, be warned - most diplomatic receptions are dreadfully dull ;)


	8. As seen from above

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matthew deals with thorny hedges, Antonio can't take a hint, and Sadiq is going to need a lot of chocolate

The _daft program_ (the name had stuck and everybody was using it now, mainly because Gilbert had taken to it with enthusiasm) was slowly taking shape. In the way a large, thorny hedge cut with a pair of nail-trimming scissors held by ungloved hands would take shape.

 _The press delegation should be at the Palace at least 1.5 hours before the press conference for security checks and registration,_ the MfA wrote in one of the many e-mails we exchanged. It was probably a sensible policy from their point of view, and having been subjected to Ruritanian security checks before, even _I_ could see the sense in it. But it caused the hedge to suddenly re-grow some very thorny vines.

I called the MfA, and got some junior protocol flunky, straight out of university (Britain, his accent said). He was friendly, and extremely unhelpful.

"Is there no way to speed up the security procedures?" I asked, desperate. "We are running on a very tight schedule."

"I am sorry, sir." The flunky didn't sound sorry at all.

I sighed, thanked him, and called the press department at the Foreign Office.

"But the press delegation will miss the meeting at the Ministry of Education and Culture and the visit to the psychiatric clinic!" The desk officer in charge protested.

"I know," I said, "but we can't help it. It's either that, or miss the press conference."

"The official photographer _has_ to stay with the main delegation."

"We'll do our best. I still need a list with all the passport numbers of the journalists and a full list of their equipment."

I made a mental note to bump the official photographer up from his place at the rear end of the motorcade, and put him in the car with the doctor and two members of the security team that would follow the VIP guests closely.

I also made a note to buy some chocolate for Sadiq. If he had to deal with eight unhappy journalists being taken apart by the presidential security, he was going to need it.

 

* * *

 

 

"A helicopter?" I asked Lovino, deeply suspicious. "Really?"

Lovino looked unperturbed, as if it was an ordinary thing to use a helicopter to pick somebody up at the airport. Well. Maybe in his world, it _was_.

And wasn't that a terrifying thought.

"And I need to be at the airport, because...?"

"We need to split the delegation in two," Lovino explains. "The Minister, his personal aide, his bodyguard, the two members of parliament and the head of department take the helicopters to Camp Roze, together with Ludwig, Gilbert and myself. The press, the support staff and all other members of the Minister's close protection team will follow by car. Since they don't need to be present at the meeting with the generals, the delay won't matter. Sadiq will take care of the press. You need to make sure everyone else gets into their assigned cars and doesn't get lost somewhere along the way."

"They are reasonable adults, Lovino," I argued. "And I'm sure this isn't their first trip."

Lovino gave a brief, incredulous laugh. "O, bless you, you are so naive. Do you have any idea how often there are hiccups during official visits, because people just wander off, or decide that they want to do a little gift shopping, or get into the wrong car? Your colleagues in New York once lost a minister when he went jogging in Central Park. His bodyguard bent down to tie his shoelaces, and gone was the minister. He reappeared some forty minutes later, sweaty and in good spirits, but by that time they had alerted every authority in the city to his possible kidnapping.

Trust me: these people need watching. They're worse than a litter of puppies."

"Less fluffy, too, I bet," I muttered.

So, a helicopter.

The funny thing about helicopters - apart from the fact that they take off and land vertically, which is pretty cool, once you think about it - is that you need an awful lot of gear even as a passenger. At least when the helicopter in question is a military one and not one that takes tourists out for pleasure flights, say above Uluru or along the North Shore of Kauai.

You need:

A helmet.

Shades, preferably bullet-proof ones. ("Bullet-proof shades? What is this, _Kingsman Part 2_?" I asked Lovino, who gave a careless shrug. "Probably not. But they can take a lot.")

Body armor. (Because nothing makes you lighter on your feet than an added twelve kilograms.)

Ear protection.

Sensible shoes. (Always a good choice. You don't wear high heels to an active war zone.)

"Anything else?" I asked Lovino, rolling my eyes. "Maybe a life vest? Or a parachute?"

"Neither will help you if this thing goes down," Lovino offered, always ready to encourage paranoia.

I can do this, I told myself. Tina Fey actually looked pretty cool doing this in _Whiskey, Tango, Foxtrot_.

Still, as the morning of the great day dawned, there was a numb feeling of dread in my stomach. And my mood wasn't improved by the fact that it had only _just_ begun to dawn, because it was half past four in the godforsaken morning, and I had only gotten to bed at a quarter to midnight, after a last round of frantic program editing and printing.

The courtyard wasn't exactly bustling with activity, but given the early hour, an astonishing number of people were up and about. I waved to two of the drivers, who seemed inordinately cheerful and awake. Feliciano, somehow, was his usual bouncy self as well, and following around his husband, whose long-suffering look clearly stated _'I told him to stay in bed, there was no need for him to get up and be underfoot, but does he listen?'_

Gilbert, at least (and to my great satisfaction) looked like death warmed over. He was clearly not a morning person.

"Ludwig, where's your vest?" Feliciano asked. "Lovino said to make sure that you didn't forget your vest."

"It's in the car," Ludwig said, trying and failing not to sound exasperated.

Feliciano pouted. "I worry, you know."

"I do. It's a helicopter, not a space shuttle."

"Yes, but still..."

I caught Ludwig's look then, and it said _help, please_.

What could I do? He is my boss.

"I'm sure it will be all right, Feli," I said. "Lovino is just driving everyone crazy because he's a paranoid bastard... and because he enjoys it."

Feliciano giggled at that. "He does, doesn't he? But hey, Matthew? He actually managed to have a civil conversation with Antonio yesterday. Well... up until the point when Antonio invited him to attend the British Embassy's autumn ball. Then it became moderately uncivilized."

"Why would Antonio invite Lovino to the British ball? He's not British."

"As his _date_ ," Feliciano emphasized. "Poor Antonio. He doesn't take hints well, does he?"

"Not even if they come in the form of thinly veiled threats, which I'm sure Lovino's usually do," I agreed, but then we both hastily shut up, because the man in question was headed towards us, his expression grumpier than usual (which is to say something).

"You may want to stop talking now," Ludwig advised both of us.

No kidding.

Lovino stalked towards us and without so much as a good morning, thrust a helmet at me. It was the color of something olive-green covered in a layer of fine dust, and it seemed rather large for my head.

"But we're not even _near_ the helicopter yet," I protested. "I'm not wearing this in the car."

Lovino sent me a _look_.

"Uh - okay. I am wearing this in the car."

"Good boy." He nodded, and turned towards Ludwig, who hastily stated: "Mine is in the car."

"Feli, what are you doing here?" Lovino asked his brother, sounding slightly less irritated. "You could be in bed."

Feliciano shrugged. "I'd hate to miss all the excitement."

Lovino rolled his eyes at him, which was as close to a fond dismissal as he would ever get. Feliciano's powers as a tamer of men and monsters are truly legendary.

 

* * *

 

 

The brief helicopter ride to the airport was both spectacular and spectacularly uncomfortable. There are a few things about helicopters you normally don't realize until you've gotten up close and personal with one:

They are really, really loud. There's a reason you wear ear protection, and it isn't to keep your ears warm. (Although that is an added benefit.)

The seats aren't nearly as comfortable as those in a commercial airplane, at least not when it's a military helicopter and you happen to be a passenger. Bundled up and ungraceful as I was in my body armor and helmet, I was half pushed, half dragged inside, and an entirely too unconcerned Lovino helped to strap first Ludwig and then me into our seats with something vaguely resembling an off-road harness.

What I also hadn't realize was that helicopters can fly with their doors open. Which seemed ludicrously dangerous to me at first, but made a lot more sense when I realized that the purpose of the open-door policy (okay, bad pun, I get it) was to give the accompanying soldiers the opportunity to shoot at potential bad guys.

The crew - two pilots and two gunners - were Turkish and part of the NATO mission supposedly stationed in Ruritania to keep the Ruritanian's from killing each other and training the ramshackle Ruritanian army in modern warfare. The two goals seem a bit contradictory, if you ask me, but nobody ever has.

Who had pulled what strings to secure us two helicopters (the second one rose from the barren field that served as a landing site just moments after ours) was completely beyond me. My guess? Ludwig now owed either the Turkish Ambassador, or the Head of the NATO mission a favor. Given the current state of German-Turkish relations, I hoped for his sake that it was the latter.

The flight was mercifully short, five or six minutes would be my guess. The view of the city at dawn, seen from high above, was spectacular. Under Lovino's displeased gaze, I even took a couple of pictures with my phone. I was planning to show them to Feliciano.

We set down at the airport in a cloud of dust, right on the tarmac. The soldiers jumped out, securing the area, and the rest of us climbed out of the helicopter with varying degrees of ungracefulness.

Almost as soon as we had cleared the area, the helicopters rose again with tremendous noise, and a renewed uproar of dust, and left.

Airport police greeted us and led us to a waiting room, forcing watery tea and crumbly cookies on us. Ludwig tried to make small talk with the self-important police commander. Lovino fidgeted. Finally, Sadiq called to inform us that the motorcade had reached the airport as well and was now lining up in the VIP parking lot.

Just in time, because not a minute later, a police officer came into the room and whispered a few words to the commander. "Plane is approaching," he said to Ludwig.

We all trouped outside and waited some more, until the plane came into sight. It was a C-160 or Transall, dull grey, and even from afar, it looked decidedly uncomfortable. I knew that the Minister and his delegation had not come all the way in the C-160, which had been brought in specifically for the flights in and out of Ruritania. Still, I didn't envy them the experience.

They trotted down the ramp, dressed in body armor and helmets, sleepy, wrinkled and cranky. The visit was off to a good start...

And then the Minister exited the plane, small and round and grinning broadly. There was a spring to his step and he showed no signs of fatigue whatsoever. He handed his helmet off to his harangued-looking aide and greeted Ludwig cordially, while Lovino, Sadiq, and I began ushering the delegation towards the waiting cars.

Predictably, there were hiccups. The cars were numbered, and all members of the delegation had received programs with an exact lineup of the motorcade in one of the annexes, and yet three people managed to end up in the wrong cars. Extracting them and guiding them to the right cars took precious time.

With a fifteen-minute delay, we rumbled towards the first scheduled meeting, and I feared for the worst.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can't imagine what it's like to be a protocol officer? It's easy. Just picture babysitting a horde of preschoolers with ambitions of world dominance, while everything that can go wrong will go wrong...


End file.
